


Dysfunction

by Morgan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Preseries, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dictionary definition of dysfunctional is “behaving or acting outside social norms”. Dean looked it up the first time Sam lobbed it at him. The dictionary definition … well. It fits. Look at where he's from, how he came up in the world, how he lives and is it really any surprise?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look Out

The dictionary definition of dysfunctional is “behaving or acting outside social norms”. Dean looked it up the first time Sam lobbed it at him. The dictionary definition … well. It fits. Look at where he's from, how he came up in the world, how he lives and is it really any surprise?

The first time Dean killed on the hunt he was sixteen. Dad took him.  
The first time Dean killed outside the hunt... he was fifteen.  
Dad doesn’t know.

Of all the little ways life fucked Dean sideways, that one left a lasting impression.

**

-You have to look out for your little brother.

The man who tells Dean is old, like even older than dad, and he has greasy looking hair tied back in a sloppy pony tail and tattoos peaking out from under his torn shirt cuffs. They’re kind of cool. Dean’s seen a tiger and a dragon there in faded colors.

Dean’s helping the man load the truck bed with shovels and sacks of something that smells dry and green, almost like hay, like grass. The man chews tobacco and spits to the side and Dean thinks it’s disgusting, but daddy said to help, so he’s helping, straining under the weight of those burlap sacks that look like they weigh nothing, pillowed out and bulging. Dean doesn’t understand why this guy is telling him to look out for Sammy, he always does, he always looks out for his little brother. Dad sat him down and told him that’s his job, that’s what big brothers do, and Dean’s going to be the best big brother ever.

Sammy’s petting one of the man’s dogs, a mud colored mutt that looks a lot more vicious at the end of a chain than he’s looking now with Sammy’s hands scratching over its neck and chops, rubbing and petting until a huge spotted tongue lolls out and the dog is panting.

-Yes, Sir, Dean says, because the man seems to be waiting for some kind of answer and Dean has been told he needs to be polite, he needs to be respectful, he needs to be A Good Boy. And Dean’s doing what Dad says. It’s Important.

The man stops, just standing there for a few minutes looking at Sammy and the dog. The dog is sitting down now, rump planted on the ground, sitting half on one hip and leaning against Sammy. Dean isn’t sure he likes the close scrutiny the man is giving the pair, like there’s something there Dean isn’t seeing. He stops too, looking, trying to see what the man sees, but there’s just Sammy, tousled and rumpled, mud on the knees of his jeans, Dean’s old shirt a little big on him, but he’ll grow into it. He has a streak of dirt down his neck and dog slobber on his hands. He’s being Sammy, talking to the dog in a soft voice, telling Sammy-things to the mutt and the dog is smiling up at him with its mouth hanging open and its head back to look up at Sammy looking down.

-Sometimes, the man says, “sometimes people are more dangerous than anything else, you understand me, son?”

Dean wants to tell the man that he’s not his son. Not Sammy either. They are John Winchester’s boys, they are John Winchester’s sons. He doesn’t need this stranger telling him what his job is, he knows it already. Keep Sammy safe. Look out for his little brother. And he always does.

Still, Dad told him to _do what he’s told_ and _be respectful_.

-Yes, Sir, Dean says and looks at the man, trying to be as serious as Dad can be, giving him a man-to-man nod, just like he’s seen dad do even if he wants to roll his eyes and say “he’s _my_ brother”.

**

Ben has an older cousin, Nate, who doesn’t mind buying beers for them. Strictly speaking, Dean’s too young, but something about the way he carries himself makes it easy for him to fit in with the older kids. Dad says he has to be responsible. Dean is, all the time. Dean’s also free and clear for the day, because Sammy’s all set. He’s got a full day, school, lunch packed and butterfly knife in his back pocket, then the whole science project thing at the library that Dean made sure he could be at, so Dean doesn’t have anything to worry about until about six o’clock and that’s when he’s going to be there, back at the crap apartment and the less than inspired dinner Dean’s got planned.

Dad’s supposed to call tomorrow.  
Dean’s not holding his breath.

Things haven’t been the same since that motel in Wisconsin with the bowling pins. Dad looks at him differently. Dad looks at him like he has to try harder, prove himself. Dean’s not done anything but step up to that, right up to it. He keeps his head down, he does the work, he does school, he takes care of Sammy.

The thing about that is that all he wants to do is take care of Sam, because he saw what almost happened. He saw the maw of the thing leaning down over Sammy and he couldn’t move. He froze. Terror-struck and cold down to his bones, the thing’s eyes had been on him for a few seconds and the shotgun was in his hands and he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even breathe, like something had flash frozen him, like his skin was made of ice. Whenever he thinks about how that second’s worth of hesitation might have cost him his little brother he gets a sick squirmy feeling in his stomach.

He isn’t thinking about that today, though. Today he’s hanging out with Ben and Jesse and Nate and they’re going to go to the lake and smoke cigarettes and drink beers and eat bologna sandwiches and talk about girls and cars and baseball and Dean’s going to be a kid for just a little while.

So when Dean gets back to the apartment he’s a little buzzed and a little too big for his own body, feeling like he could take on the world and beat it too.

Sam is just a kid.  
Sammy is just a little kid.

Dean sees it right away, the way that sleaze down the hall has roped Sam into conversation. He sees the uneasy set of Sam’s shoulders, the way he’s letting his hair fall into his face so he can hide his eyes. He sees the way Sam is guarding, protecting himself, lying through his teeth when the guy, the creep up the hall, asks about their dad, asks when he’s going to be back, asks where he is, fuck, like that’s any of his business. Sam’s trying desperately to get past him, but the guy is stepping into his path every time he shifts.

Dean knows that dance. He’s done that dance himself a time or two… thirteen and supposedly pretty with it, or so he’s been told in motels and rest stops and diners and public restrooms. Dean’s nothing like Sammy, though, and thank fucking god, Sammy is nothing like Dean. For one thing, Sammy’s got an older brother.

-Sam, Dean says and it’s not so much a hello as it’s an order to get the fuck inside and away from this hallway, this conversation, that creep that keeps looking at him in ways that make Dean want to reach for a weapon.

Sam’s relief is palpable. The kid is young, but he’s not stupid.

Sam blows past him with a glance through his bangs and a ghost of a smile and then he’s gone, door sliding almost shut behind him while Dean walks over to the creep with his false smile and his bad hair and his crooked front teeth.

-You got questions, you bring them to me, Dean tells him and he wants so bad to shove the creep in the chest and knock him the hell down, but he won’t start anything that draws attention in case dad really isn’t back in the next couple of days.

The creep looks at him, a slow once-over that makes Dean’s skin crawl and tries to make his smile inviting. Dean’s been down this particular alley before too.  
Better him than Sam.

**

They call them predators. Dean thinks that is kind of funny. They call the sad-sack sickos that go after kids _predators_. He figures it would be more apt to call them parasites. Scavengers. Vermin.

Dad had this talk with him and Sam a while back where he stressed the whole safety thing. Talked about things that Dean’s known about from firsthand experience since he was eight. He nodded in all the right places, made sure not to roll his eyes and tell his dad that he doesn’t just sleep with a gun under his pillow because he’s scared of the closet-monster.

Some of the shit holes they’ve stayed in over the years have been pretty rough. It just took Dean waking up once with a man standing inside their room with a hand down his pants for Dean pick up the habit. It’s why he sleeps closest to the door.

Sammy knows all about that stuff too. Sam’s known about grooming since Dean caught his coach trying to get Sam alone one time too many. They’ve never really talked to dad about any of that. Dean’s not sure why. It’s probably because it’s a part of their world and nothing dad has any need to know. They’ve survived being cute kids lots of times, being wide-eyed and polite and oh, so, innocent, but that can get them into some very specific kinds of trouble too. Just like being poor and itinerant does.

Dean has put on muscle lately, but he’s still kind of skinny and not really scary-looking the way dad is. Dean’s learned real well to be the other kind of frightening. The kind that starts out soft-eyed and sweet and then turns into a viper with a blade. Especially when someone tries putting hands on Sam. Sam is off limits unless you want to lose your balls.

Sam isn’t helpless. Sam has a knife on him at all times, and Dean doesn’t think dad ever questioned it. Dad just never made the connection there, thinks of it as the only weapon Sammy can have with him at school. Fact of the matter is that balisong only has one practical use. It works on people, nothing else. Dean’s the one who got him that blade, taught him how to use it, gave him a little showmanship in how to open it one-handed, the twirl of the blade and the obvious chink of metal on metal. Dean can’t tell how many times he’s watched Sam sitting with his homework absentmindedly flipping the knife open and closing it only to open it again without even looking at it until it seemed like something he can do in his sleep, movement all natural and fluid.

Dean has his own killing tools. He prefers guns. The Colt looks scarier in his hands than it should because Dean is still too young to be any good handling it, theoretically. Having some teenage kid point a .45 at your head is unnerving enough and not being sure if he knows what he’s doing is even worse. Dean has played up the jitters a few times. It’s all an act. Dean’s aim is steady and his trigger discipline is good. He knows how to control his breathing and keep everything in check.

**

Sam comes back to the house they’re renting and he’s fucking pale as a sheet when he walks through the door. Dean has his mouth open to say “hey, kiddo” when he sees the wild look in Sam’s eyes and the torn cuff on his shirt and before you can even say what-the-fuck he’s at Sammy’s side, hand on Sam’s shoulder and eyes scanning all over him, looking for a hurt.

-Hey, Sammy, what…?  
-Dean, Sam says and grabs on to his t-shirt with a death’s grip and he’s trembling.

It takes a long time to get the whole thing out of Sam, he’s so freaked out. It takes an hour and Dean keeps getting steadily angrier the whole time, Sam shocky and shaking and so, so scared.

Dean has to sit them down on the crappy couch with the pokey springs and get Sam a soda and put an arm over his shoulders before Sam even starts breathing like a normal human being. He’s pale through most of the first ten minutes and he’s got this full bodied trembly thing going that isn’t like anything else Dean’s ever felt before. It makes his stomach clench.

An older guy with a receding hairline in a beige Buick. Dean doesn’t interrupt. Solicited Sam. Fucking solicited his little brother on his way home from school and yeah, okay, they’re not in the gravy distinct of this piece of shit town, but Sam is eleven and scrawny with it and Dean’s already so fucking angry he knows he’s tightening his grip on Sam’s shoulder more than he should. Sam just leans into him heavier in response.

Older guy in a Buick. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Wouldn’t take no. Tried to grab Sam up and get him in the car.

Tried to grab Sammy off the street and take him somewhere else.  
Dean knows what that means. Secondary location, secluded.  
Bad things happen to little boys at secondary locations and he would never have seen Sam again.

-Plates? Dean asks.  
-Never saw ‘em, Sam says and leans his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “Wrenched his wrist, got out of there. Ran the whole way back. _Dean_.”  
-Okay, okay. Okay, kid, Dean says and his hand is at the back of Sam’s neck. “You did good, you did so good. I find this piece of shit I’m going to cut his balls off.”

Sammy. Jesus. Second time he could have lost Sam to some fucking monster and it doesn’t matter if this kind drives a goddamned station wagon and pays his taxes. Dean’s not going to fuck up on the job again, ever.

Sam’s never been a clingy kid. He's good at staying close when he needs to, but there's a fierce independent streak in him. Little brother plays it close to the vest most of the time. He asks for help when he needs it, and that's never been frequent. After this shit, though, Sammy stays real close.

Dean wakes in the middle of the night when Sammy's having bad dreams, tuned to the low whimpers and Sam fighting with his blankets like they're trying to hold him down. Dean shakes his shoulder saying ”Sam. Sammy, Sam, come on” and Sam comes awake like a gunshot, elbows flying everywhere and almost clocking Dean in the face. He looks so fucking scared Dean muscles his way onto Sam's bed and lays down next to him, shoulder pressed into Sam's back as Sam finally settles back down. Sam is almost hugging the wall at first, but he slowly relaxes enough that Dean can feel him all along his side. It pisses Dean off that Sammy's brought to this.

They're in a working class neighborhood, but Sam has to walk a couple of blocks of boarded up storefronts and abandoned factory buildings and Dean didn't think this town was even big enough to have a strip, but now, when he's looking for it, he sees it. Slow trawling cars and skinny kids huddled in darkened doorways and it's all shit. It's all the worst kind of shit. It's usually empty during the day, so he missed it. Not good, not good at all.

He tells Sam to wait for him at school, to let Dean come and get him and Sam nods, eyes too big and too blank and they're both more shaken by the whole thing than Dean would like to admit. Dean breaks out his emergency cash and buys Sam a bike. Better if the kid's mobile, not on foot, not looking like trade.

Dean looks for that beige Buick. He looks for a guy with thinning hair and a bandaged wrist. He looks for the bastard that tried to take Sammy, because not all monsters have fangs and claws. Dean's not sure what he's going to do if he finds him, but he thinks about it when he sits at the kitchen table cleaning guns. He thinks about what kind of look he could put on the bastard's face. He thinks about other kids who might not have been fast enough. He thinks about it all the time in the week it takes before Sam's got his shit together enough that the nightmares stop and Dean doesn't have to disentangle him from the bed clothes and tell him ”shh, Sammy, I'm here, it’s okay, you’re safe”.

Sam doesn't say anything about it, but he still won't sleep alone and somewhere along the line Dean stops waking up when Sam slips into his bed at night. He kinds of likes it, waking up with Sammy under his arm, tucked in neat and safe. They don't usually share when they're not on the road, but this is different. This has messed up Sam's equilibrium.

They practice more hand-to-hand these days than they’ve ever done before. Breaking holds, especially. Sam has this new look on his face, a kind of locked down focus, eyes hard and blank, and he works his ass off, making Dean so proud, so goddamned proud of the little brat. As a bonus Dean teaches Sam some of the really dirty fighting that he learned from a friend of Caleb's who used to street fight for fun. He makes Sammy swear to never use any of that if it isn't life or death, and it's all going after eyes and balls and throat and soft parts. It’s to maim, to hurt with lasting effect. Not something you use on bullies.

Dean kind of wants to maim something. Some _one_. Dean looks for that Buick.

Dad’s made a deal with them this time. Dean’s been deemed good enough to hold down the fort while he’s off chasing some lead, saving civilians. Dean took this for Sam, because Sam just wants to finish out the semester in one school. They’ve got a couple of months to go. Suited Dean just fine until this shit happened.

Dad wouldn’t even know how to begin to handle this. There’s nothing to research here, no big connections to make, just one sick fuck looking to hurt kids. Dean knows how that goes. So he keeps an eye out for that Buick. Talks to some of the street kids. He’s enough like them to get in close enough to talk.

There’s a black haired kid with soft, dark honey eyes standing in a doorway with a skinny blond kid who looks like he’s sleeping, or nodding, whichever, at his feet. Dean can’t really tell. The black-haired kid is kind of standing over the other one, legs in a broad spread, feet either side his sleeping crumple. Dean asks if he’s seen a Buick and at first he gets a lot of attitude, but he softens that with a look of his own that says “quit being a bitch”. The kid gives him a second once-over to back up the first one he gave when Dean walked up to him. Takes in Dean’s ratty jeans and worn out sneakers and the faded t-shirt. It changes the kid’s stance a little.

-Beige Buick? Dean asks and lights the kid’s cigarette.  
Kid, leans in, inhales and then all polite, says “thank you” and “no, haven’t seen it”.

Dean tells him. Gives him a description, says “don’t get in the car”. Says “tell your friends”.

The kid scoffs.  
-I don’t have any friends, he says.  
Dean gives the artistic pretzel of skinny bones at his feet a glance, raises an eyebrow. He knows the look, the looking-out-for-someone look. The kid blows out a long slow plume of smoke and nods, just once.  
-I’ll tell ‘em, he says.

When Dean turns to walk away he hears a real soft-spoken “thanks” behind his back and wonders how long it would take before that was them, him and Sam, if dad gets himself killed or just vanishes off the face of the earth, like Dean keeps thinking he just might one of these days when it’s been too long since he last heard from the old man.

**

Dean finds the creep. It's by complete and total accident. He's walking past the gas station about two blocks down from where they live and there's the goddamned Buick. So damned close. All the way up in their backyard. Dean walks right by. The guy is short, bland. Thinning hair, all pale wisp and pasty looking. He's got a bandaged hand - way to go, Sammy. He's got someone with him, an overweight slob in a blue windbreaker who looks like he's just swallowed something unpleasant.

Dean doesn't let himself stare, or stop, or walk over and start throwing punches. He doesn’t let himself do anything. Thinks about it, though. Thinks about the sound of breaking bones and thinks about the raw red of blood. Dean stops half a block away, loiters. Checks his surroundings, looks down the street, does everything right. There's not a lot he can do here, out in the open.

Predator. That's fine. Predators aren't anything other than just prey for the hunter and Dean's been training all his goddamned life to be a hunter. Guns and knives and hand-to-hand and stealth and tactics and above all … patience. He's learned from the best. For a blind moment he wishes he had dad here, wishes he had the car, but that's not the way this is going to play out.

Dean's never been one to rely on luck. He doesn't trust luck where his own skills are more dependable. Sometimes, though, a little luck goes a long way, like one in the chamber. The Buick is coughing smoke and going maybe ten miles an hour to the trailer park on the other side of the industrial area. Dean has no trouble keeping up. He's eternally grateful him and Sam didn't wind up there. ”Starter homes” everywhere and the ripe smell of garbage and sewage and just the overall stench of poverty. Dean knows it well.

He has another piece of luck when the Buick turns into the mess of trailers and he thinks he's going to have to go searching after that, but there's one mobile home standing off by itself on a small incline, a little ways away from the others, which gives the illusion of scant privacy and Dean knows without looking that that's where the scumbag is heading. He stays just long enough to see both assholes get out of the Buick and start pushing it in that direction before he checks his watch and realizes it's time to go pick up Sam.

Pick up Sam. It's what this bastard tried to do, pick Sam up and bring him here, maybe, and then what? Hurt him? Rape him? Kill him? Make him disappear? Sam with his too smart eyes and old soul intelligence and his bravado and independence and strong heart and his kindness to stray dogs and random strangers. How much of that would this bastard have killed by putting his dirty, grubby hands on him? How much would Sam's spirit have been broken? Or – would Sam have stuck his knife in the goddamned loser and have been made a killer, just like that?

It's not for Sam to do – that kind of burden is not for Sam to carry. That's Dean's. He's the one who has to keep little brother safe and protected and out of the fire. That's Dean's job. Dean doesn't want to pretend that he makes any kind of decision, not right there, but he thinks maybe he's going to come back later and have a look around.

Oh, what “maybe”? He's going to be back here as soon as he can with an EMF and a gun and he's sure there have been others, of course there has, because a creep like this doesn't just wake up one day and have a sudden inspiration. Dean knows how these guys work, the guys who want to call you ”son” and ”kid” and ”baby boy” and all the rest of it, goddamned pedos.

Sam is surprisingly unresisting when Dean tells him he's going out for a while later that night. Dean thinks he got off easy until he's about a block away and then he realizes. Right. Dad's been gone for about that long, and Dean's done this before when the cash starts running low.

What Sam did before he left was all new, though. Sam looked at him, long and searching and then stood up from the couch and came all the way over to Dean, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, making fists there and leaned in, head lowered.

-Be safe, Dean, Sam told him.

Or, told his breastbone, anyway. It wasn't a request, or a goodbye, or a good luck or anything like it. It was an imperative. Dean knows the difference.  
Dean can do that, he can be safe.

Dean goes to the trailer park. And he slits the creep’s throat.

Later he would love to be able to pretend that had been some big hero rescue thing. It’s not. It’s an execution.

Dean makes sure first, of course he does. The creep isn’t home when Dean gets there and the locks on the door are pathetic. He picks them and goes in and searches the place, meticulous and careful, like dad taught him.

The porn is under the bed, predictably. There’s too much of it. Dean can’t look at more than one or two things before he starts feeling like he’s about to lose his dinner. It’s bad. Slender youths is one thing, but little boys is something else, and this is all little boys in cub scout uniforms, tied down and misused in ways that Dean wishes he could scrub out of his brain after just catching a glimpse of it.

It’s not the too big hands, the hairy backs and the potbellies on the men. It’s the looks on the kids’ faces. Pain and humiliation and so much fear, so much terror. Worse than that are the ones that are just blank, dead-eyed. Absent and vacant. Dean sneers and turns his head away.

There are books all over. Developmental psychology, “getting to know your child” books. Parental guides. Dean’s not sure what sickens him more, the porn or the other stuff.

In a box under a table he finds things. A ball cap. A judo uniform jacket. Toy car. Dean knows what this is. Trophies. The fucking scum has trophies.

There’s some junk mail and unpaid bills on the table. The man’s name is Barlow. The only way in which that matters to Dean is this vague notion he has in the back of his head that it could be good to know the name of the man he’s going to kill.

Barlow shows up just a little while after that.

Dean hasn’t done anything demonstrative, like leave all the evidence out. He’s hiding in the tiny, dingy bathroom with the lights out and the hunting knife dad gave him in a loose, easy grip. He’s not sweating. Not shaking. Not nervous. His heart is beating hard enough that he can feel it, but not hard enough to make him worry. Dean’s perfectly calm, perfectly ready. He’s filled with the kind of deadly rage that goes quiet and still the second he has his target in sight. He’s left enough of a gap in the door that he can watch.

He waits while Barlow takes off his jacket and hangs it on a hook. He waits while Barlow sits down with his back to the bathroom door and fidgets with a radio that’s perched on a thin shelf. He waits while Barlow pops the tab on a beer he fishes out of the bag he came in with. He waits while Barlow lights a cigarette and hums along to whatever inane jingle is trying to sell him car wax or shampoo. He waits until he doesn’t have to anymore and then he glides the door back, sneaks across the floor and puts one hand on the bastard’s greasy forehead, brutally forcing his head back and slits his throat from one ear to the other, a deep sure cut, knife going in like his skin and gristle are butter, blood pumping from the carotid like every bad slasher movie Dean’s ever seen.

There’s a sickening popping noise when the trachea get severed and the creep gurgles his own blood, but it’s over really fucking fast. He kicks a little, flails, sure, but Dean’s fine with that. It takes maybe three minutes all in all and Dean holds on the whole time, making sure the feeble scuffling doesn’t do anything but make Barlow’s blood pump faster out the fucking hole in his neck.

Dean steps back and lets the body slump forward over the blood-soaked table while the radio prattles on about the news and the weather and the best place to get fresh donuts in the mornings. He breathes out long and slow.

Dean’s hands are steady. There’s not a drop of blood on him.

Rationally he gets that this should feel wrong, this should feel different, but it just doesn’t. The only thing Dean feels when he looks at the body slumped over the table, blood dripping into a spreading puddle on the dirty floor, is a kind of calm contentment. Same as when he bull’s eyes every target at practice, or when he gets it right during sparring with dad.

Job well done. But… not over yet.

The fact that Barlow set himself up for privacy works in Dean’s favor. He finds some salt in the kitchen cupboard and soaks the guy in it, carefully making sure not to step in the blood. Then he unplugs a small heater from the socket, peels the chord back to the copper in the wire right around the plug and sticks it back in, drops a blanket on top of it and sets it up right by Barlow’s feet.

Origin of fire, faulty wires and carelessness. Barlow in a dead drunk stupor over his table and hopefully some of his kiddy porn will survive the flames, but if it doesn’t Dean at least knows this is the end of the line for the bastard. There won’t be a ghost. Dean grabs the bottle of cheap booze on the counter and upends that over Barlow’s cooling corpse, tells him “vade retro” and lights the match.

Dean watches from the second floor of an old disused factory building across the street from the trailer park as the fire catches, makes sure that the little straggly community wakes up and watches the fire fighters go in. By then the flames from Barlow’s trailer are licking the dark sky and there’s not going to be a damned thing left to see but a charred crispy when it’s down to smoldering embers.

**

Dean’s the one, that night. Dean’s the one that climbs into Sam’s bed.

He doesn’t even take off his jacket, lying down on top of Sam’s blankets, suddenly and hugely exhausted and feeling like he can take a breath for the first time in weeks.

-Jesus, Dean, Sam grouses when he feels the bed dip and then seconds later he half-way turns over, staring at Dean through the gloom over his shoulder. “You smell like fire”.  
-Sorry, Dean says and tries to turn away, but Sam has him by then, one hand on Dean’s arm, grip surprisingly strong.  
-Okay? Sam asks and he’s not angry, not scared, not anything other than Sammy-curious, like Dean can do no wrong.

Dean can’t tell him. His thoughts don’t line up right. He forces Sam around, turns him so Sam’s back is to his chest and pulls him in. Sam’s awake now, a little tense under his arm, but Dean can’t say anything. He pushes his face into that spot between Sam’s shoulder blades that’s all bone and sinew and rests his forehead there.

-Dean?  
-Not now, Sammy. Sleep now.

So they do, even if it takes a while for Dean to get there.

**

Dad shows back up a day later, tried and sore, but not too banged up. He hangs around for something like ten days before he starts talking about some leads out of state. It’s fine. Dean’s more than happy for him to go this time, because things have been tense since he came back, Sammy waiting for the other shoe to drop and for dad to take back his promise. Dad doesn’t seem to notice, but then Dean runs enough interference that there isn’t really that much to pick up on.

Dad gives him a serious looking over a couple of days in, though, and Dean can feel something coming. He wasn’t really ready for the “are you alright, Dean-o, you’re being awfully quiet” talk.

The scary thing is that Dean’s fine.  
He really is.


	2. Patterns

Sam’s far too fucking smart for his own good. That’s hardly a secret. He’s put together patterns for dad a couple of times already with an attentive clarity that has even had John smiling, and that is something else. The pattern here is too obvious for Dean to have a hope of getting away with it. The fire was on the local news. Dean came back with smoke on him. Dean came back quiet and he’s been a little too quiet since. There’s also the fact that the rabid edge to his protective streak just fizzles out.

Sam probably put it together that first night, but while dad’s home Sam won’t say anything. They don’t usually talk about the glaringly obvious anyway.

It’s maybe a week dad’s been gone and the cupboards are stocked and Sam’s doing his homework and Dean is watching something inane on TV. He doesn’t think about it much, and when he does all that happens is that this small spot near his heart goes a little icy and the rest of him goes a lot satisfied. “Stone killer”, someone on TV says and whatever that’s in reference to, Dean has no idea. He hasn’t been paying that kind of attention.

Sam’s gaze goes to the screen for a second and then flits over to Dean. There’s a whole room between them and Sam’s eyes shouldn’t seem so calmly certain.

-Like you? Sam asks, voice inflectionless and straightforward.   
-Don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean says, but the gruff is false and the pitch is off, too soft.

Sam looks at him for a long moment, something sparking in his gaze and then he just goes back to his homework like nothing happened here. Dean’s heart is thumping, though, loud and wild.

**

Dad takes him on his first “real hunt” about a year later. Gives him the crossbow, hands over silver tipped arrows and tells him to watch. Just watch.

It’s stupidly easy to shoot the thing through the heart when it comes at them from an angle dad hadn’t predicted.

After, when they’ve burned it and buried it and they’re booking it out of there, dad talks in the car. He’s trying to tell Dean something about what it’s like, killing. What to expect. He talks about nightmares and flashbacks and emotions and control and about not talking about it, all that stuff. Dad talks about “healthy ways” of dealing, like Dean hasn’t seen him crawl down a bottle once or twice when it’s been bad. He talks about how he’s so proud of Dean. It’s a fumbling mess of a conversation and it leaves Dean feeling hollow inside, except for that tiny patch of ice near his heart that just solidifies.

Dean thinks about Sam, left back at the motel. Thinks about how he and Sam share a bed. Thinks about his and Sam’s world and how different it is from dad’s. It’s not bad, exactly. It’s just… well, Dean’s still a kid and he’s thinking that his dad is being naïve. It’s kind of a mindfuck.

You don’t teach a kid to shoot and pick locks and steal cars and cast bullets and stitch wounds and take care of his little brother through endless weeks and then turn around and start talking about the things that Dean has known since he was eight like any of that is news. Dean knows all about combat. He’s lived it for so long, the battle, that he knows every flavor it has.

So… dad talking like all this is new makes Dean want to smile, but all he does is put his head down and say “yes, sir”. Dean needs to believe in something and he stopped believing in angels a long time ago. John Winchester is it for Dean when it comes to putting your faith in something. He has to have something to believe in that he can perceive with his senses.

Dad doesn’t need to know that Dean was already a killer.

**

Sam is a contrary little bitch. Dean tries to gloss over that, but it’s a character trait that comes through more and more as time wears on. Dad knows it and he still can’t seem to control his reaction to it, which baffles Dean. John’s usually levelheaded. Has a temper, sure, but it only rarely comes to a boil around them and that’s usually when Sam’s mouth starts going.

John says something about Sam staying home because he can’t be trusted to keep himself safe and it’s like watching a train wreck. Or, no. It’s like watching the big scene at the end in a courtroom drama. It’s got the strike and counter-strike of two people locked at opposite sides of something where both of them have too much to lose to back the fuck down and cool off before something gets said that will end up costing too much.

Dad takes off for a hunt nearby and the angry slam of the door is more temper than he usually allows himself to show.

And then Sam’s gone.

They’re in Arizona when it happens.

Somehow this is all Dean’s fault.

Dad tears him a new one.

You can’t hand Sam ultimatums. It doesn’t work. Little shit’s stubborn as all get out and dad knows that. He still … he still does, though, and Dean has been trying to figure that out for years. Sam doesn’t fall in line that way. He never has. That is somehow Dean’s fault too. Dad tells him so. Tells him he’s “dropped the ball again, god damn it, Dean!” and it cuts through Dean like an ice pick.

Dad raises his hand, but the blow never falls.

Dean says “yes, sir”.

He doesn’t apologize, though. Dean has taught Sammy everything he needs to know to protect himself, including some things that John would never have thought of, because John still has a sort of moral code when it comes to fighting and killing and Dean doesn’t. Dad has always included the kind of fighting that means you gain the upper hand over a bigger and stronger opponent, but it’s always been geared towards getting a few good hits in and then running to regroup, find help, get back-up. Dean’s taught Sam all the kinds of dirty fighting that mean you put you opponent down hard and permanent – no matter if it’s man or beast.

Sam can handle himself.

He proves it for two weeks solid there in Arizona.

It’s meant to show dad that Sammy’s not a little kid anymore. It’s meant to show dad that Sammy can do more than just research or hide in the car or stay in the motel room, but dad sort of misses the point.

What happens is that dad revisits every single mistake Dean’s ever made while hunting, or waiting, or watching over Sam. Dean takes it, all the accusations and he swallows them down and he hears them and he gets it.

He never really worries about Sam, though, other than in that same abstract way he always worries when Sammy’s out of sight.

Sam wasn’t taken. He just left.

If Dean was feeling like he needed a good whipping he would have told dad “he left because of you, sir”, but John’s temper is volatile enough as it is, and Dean’s not that much of a glutton for punishment.

It baffles Dean that dad still believes either one of them are little kids like other kids are little kids. When dad needs to he up and leaves and tells them how they’re smart boys, good boys, they can handle themselves. The flipside of that coin is when dad all of a sudden barges in and wants them to be just like all the other kids. He doesn’t understand Sam’s independent streak, his intelligence, his propensity for boredom when he doesn’t get enough brain food. He doesn’t understand Dean’s ability to put together a bank roll faster than he can, most days. He doesn’t see that Dean does take care of Sam, has always taken care of Sam, has always watched out for Sam.

This thing in Arizona isn’t about Sam and Dean, it’s about dad and Sam.   
Dad doesn’t see that at all.

**

Dad rewards everything that has to do with their outlaw side. Dean’s not even sure, half the time that the old man knows he’s doing it. He gives praise for good shooting, good tactics, good sparring. He frowns at Sam’s requests for things to do with school and he signs report cards with the kind of contempt most working men have for any kind of paperwork. Dean forges his signature most of the time, anyway. Outlaw in good working order.

Dean has a terrifying moment one morning when he hears the thought “you hick” reverberate through his head and he knows it’s what he thinks of his father at that moment. John’s in a dirty undershirt, ragged jeans and socks with holes in the toes, three weeks worth of growth of beard and trying to pry something lose from behind a molar with his index finger. He’s having beer with his breakfast. It’s such a cliché that it scares Dean a little. The flood of random disgust and aberrant affection that comes on the heels of that thought don’t really help.

Things have been decidedly chilly between them since Arizona.

Dean tries to care more than he does. It’s not all that easy, he’s got other things to worry about. That part of him that switches off when he needs it too, when he working, when he’s earning, when he’s got a weapon in his hands… he can use it for this too. He knows this hurts, but he just doesn’t let himself feel it.

Dad looks at him and sees a solider that fucked up on the job. Dean can’t take that on, can’t bring that inside himself. Dad hasn’t just trained one single soldier, he hasn’t really trained soldiers at all. He’s trained hunters and they’re a different breed. And dad overlooks Sam, how’s that even possible? Dad still manages to look at Sam and see his little boy, his son. Dean honestly can’t remember when he last got that look.

There’s no rebellion for Dean. That’s okay, Sam’s got that covered, but there’s no grace either between being grown up and being a kid and somehow even with that dad expects him to fit in and be a soldier at the same time. It doesn’t work. It’s like a big game of “one of these things is not like the others”. Dean has a lot of roles to play and sometimes it feels like it would just be easier if he got the notes beforehand. If it’s going to be one of those days when he goes to bed with the oily tang of gun smoke at the back of his mouth, if he’s supposed to put together dinner and lunch for tomorrow for Sam, kid’s growing like a goddamned weed. The problem is those things are one and the same, there is no odd one out there. But being a kid doesn’t really factor into any of that.

**

Sam has this way of looking at Dean like Dean’s his hero. It doesn’t really matter what’s coming out of Sam’s mouth, how much contempt he’s trying to spill. His eyes tell a different story. Sam plays it so fucking close to the vest most days that dad only hears the snarl, the spite, the trapped fox hiss.

Sam used to look at dad like that too, and it still happens sometimes, but it’s getting more and more rare. Dean doesn’t know what to do about that.

First of all dad is the real hero, he’s the one that saves people, puts together the hunts and rescues people from all kinds of really bad stuff. Stuff like what happened to them. That’s not Dean. He just… he just does what he has to. Somehow that seems to matter more to Sam.

**

Dean’s doing laundry and thinking about burritos and watching people walk past outside the window. It’s a little dank in the Laundromat, a little too hot. It smells like too many kinds of detergent and too many kinds of fabric softener and sweat and dirt and all those scents mix together with the mildew and it all comes out really unpleasant.

There’s a kind coffee place next door that might double as a bookstore. It’s mismatched furniture and low tables and too many pillows on the benches fixed to the walls. Dean lasted all of twenty minutes in there before he gave it up and decided this is still better. He’s got a paper and a corner to himself. It’s fine.

Dean’s doing chores. That’s what he does, apparently.

He’s just sitting there, not thinking about anything in particular when he suddenly remembers. It’s a vivid, visceral kind of thing. Might be something about the smell, neglect and soap in a bad mix. Poverty lurking under that. Something bad about all of it, anyway. His fingers on the greasy forehead of the bastard who tried to take his brother. The knife going in so easy. The crackle of breath, scuffle on the worn linoleum.

Dean sits there, frozen, silent. Under all the anger he probably should have been terrified, but he can’t remember that part and what’s happening now isn’t really like remembering. It’s like he’s there, with all of it, the shadows and the anger and the smell of piss and the stink of lack and all of it, just … all of it.

The door opens and a woman walks in with a kid on her hip and a laundry bag in her hand. It doesn’t break the memory as much as it dispels the intensity of it just enough that Dean can haul himself out and go put stuff in the driers. He’s not even really all that shook up, just cold and tired and he wants to go check on Sammy, even if he knows it’s two hours until Sam’s done for the day.

Dean thinks about what to make for dinner and wonders if there are any hotdogs left. He has to buy toothpaste and bread anyway, might as well get that done on the way to pick Sam up. Good soldier, good son, does what he’s told, yes sir. Only… that’s not really what this is. Dean needs to see Sam, make sure he’s in one piece.

**

Sam talks about school, about college. Dean knows that’s not for him. It’s not only because he dropped out. Dean’s a trained killer. He has been since he was just a child. There is no way for him to fit with kids who have just left home and still think drinking illicit beer at a loud party is the best thing ever. Dean’s drunk the beer, he’s had the girls, he’s been there, done that. He’s a skilled killer with an eye for marksmanship and the conditioning to do a three mile run in under eighteen minutes. He’s good at the outlaw stuff. He’s good at doing chores and making beds you could bounce a nickel off.

He doesn’t really have any skills that could get him into college, never mind the money.

Besides, Dean can’t leave. The thing that should make him go is the same thing that’s keeping him right where he is. All his loyalty and his sense of responsibility, the thing he puts his faith in all twisted up with something that doesn’t even make sense and that makes him wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of Sam’s long, coltish legs bracketing his hips and Sam’s breath sweet and hot on his neck. It’s not something Dean wants to ever look at. He can’t even go at it abstractly, because dreaming those things? That isn’t him. That isn’t right.

**

Dean doesn’t have friends. He gets friendly, sure, but he never gets close. He’s had buddies and cronies and every other kind of liaison that is like second-cousin-twice-removed from an actual friendship as he understands that concept. He knows what to look for when it comes to hooking up, hustling. He knows what to look for when he’s forced to go outside the norms, outside the law too. He knows the exact precise shape of a smile that will let him in the door, and the tightening of the brows that means it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge. It’s a skill set it took him some time to acquire, but he’s been working on it since he was six years old, so he’s got a decade and some spare change in the trenches.

The thing about all that is, he knows what to look for and he knows what to do about what he sees, how much he can get away with and when to make sure to keep his back to the wall. And in all that, one of the things he’s gotten really good at is knowing what to do when he sees someone looking back.

Dean forgets sometimes. He forgets and then Sammy looks at him with his eyes completely guileless. Sam is the only one who isn’t working an angle with him and he’s so fucking used to seeing that, seeing someone calculate how much they can get out of him, how much they can take and trade and barter and wheedle and get him to give up. Sammy isn’t like that. Sammy isn’t like all the others. Sam doesn’t want anything from him that he isn’t willing to give, that he wouldn’t give gladly with both hands.

Dean’s done more than he should, either way. Dean’s gone too far already. He’s gone over and beyond in back alleys and rented rooms. He’s traded, stolen, grifted. He’s nothing but a single-minded intention when it comes to little brother. “Watch out for Sammy”. He does that. “Look after your little brother, boy”. He does that too.

He doesn’t have any fucking clue what to do when Sam’s eyes change, when it’s his little brother looking back. There’s dysfunctional and then there’s completely and utterly fucked in the head and Dean doesn’t want to think about it.

**

Sam's dependence has faded and morphed with time. Dean doesn't miss all those years of tying shoes and wiping Sammy's snotty nose and holding his hand when they cross the street. There are still things Sam needs from Dean, but they're of a different order now.

They train together, that's pretty much a given, they've always done that, but where Sam used to need Dean to motivate him, cajole, now he’s the one who asks for it.

**

Dean wonders sometimes if Sam really is innocent, if he's as unaware as he acts. He thinks that he and dad have fucked themselves over harder than they can even imagine when they taught Sammy to be a good liar, smart and confident and slicker than oil. He thinks about how all this doesn't have to be anything bad, because he loves his little brother, he really does. That's never been the issue.

He remembers blood welling so fast from a dying man's neck and he thinks maybe that love is the most dangerous thing about him. That love and care has far too many sharp edges. It's a fucking deadly thing, this devotion Dean has to his brother and it makes him see things. Sam's puppy fat melting off him as he starts growing, bones pushing hard and muscles getting long and lean. His face still has some softness to it, but he's going coyote all over, lanky spare strength and keeping pace easy when they go for morning runs.

Sam tries out for track. He likes running. It's similar to a portend and Dean doesn't like the way that makes him feel. Dean doesn't give a shit about any of that, even if he was on the swim team himself, something about the water and chlorine and early mornings. He liked the quiet in the push and resistance of water, liked that it wasn't a team sport, no matter how much the coach talked about “the swim team, emphasis on team”. Dean knows Sam prefers soccer, prefers hiding in the herd, but even when he tries he still stands out, bright light and hard angles. He's better than the rest of the them, just like Dean always was, but it doesn't really matter, because by the time they should have been competing the Winchesters are in the wind again.

Swimming is the one thing dad never taught them. Dad doesn't like going in the water, for whatever reason. It's one of those things he's just not good at, can't be good at everything, right? So Dean learns and then he teaches Sam. There are lakes and pools and the scent of sweat and chlorine and sunshine and sunblock and Sam is not as good as Dean is. Dean's the best swimmer out of the three of them and that almost makes it something just for him, even when Sam is trying to catch up to him there too, long bronzed limbs in ratty trunks, because lately all their clothes are starting to look like they've been through the war already. The t-shirt he’s got on is old and frayed at the neck. It’s washed so soft it’s right at that point where it will start falling apart.

Dean makes a small concession and buys them brand new swim gear. He buys them new boxers too, socks. He gets a couple of notebooks for Sam and some new pens, because the kids chews the ends like a recovering junky and when he gets new ones he always gives Dean this smile, this small honest smile. It fucking kills Dean what he will do for that smile these days.

Sam's been on the track team and on the soccer team but the thing that blows Dean's mind the most is when he sees Sam in the park down the road sitting at one of the low tables opposite an old geezer in a striped sweater vest playing chess like a pro. Sammy has picked up chess somewhere and Dean hangs around in the shadows watching him give that old man a run for his money.

Chess is like swimming, only this time Dean’s the one being taught, even if he knew the basics. You wouldn't think he'd have the patience for it, but once he had seen Sam's face when he asked, the banked down, bottom line joy there, it was just obvious. Sam beat him soundly, because yeah, Dean's a rookie in the worst way, but that didn't mean Sammy was going to go easy on him. Afterwards he’d go through the moves, show Dean where he left his knight unguarded and it was brand new, Sam's careful voice and the way he kept checking Dean's eyes, expecting... Dean doesn't even know what. Expecting Dean to get angry with him. Fuck, Dean's so proud of Sam it’s actually a little stupid. He doesn't know how to say that, so he just tips his king over, admits defeat, bows his head and tries to not let the grin break too big over his own face.

Ratty jeans, dirty sneakers, everything about them broken and broken in. They play chess when dad’s not around. It’s just one of those things. Dad would find a way to suck the fun out of it, make it a battle tactics thing, make Sam lose the light in his eyes over it. Dean doesn’t know how he knows, he just knows. And he doesn’t want that.

**

The kind of attention Dean draws isn't always good. It makes his stomach crawl sometimes. When he was a kid it occasionally made him so uncomfortable that he wished he was invisible. It gets him where he needs to be, opens doors, it gets him out of trouble. It gets him all kinds of things. And he’s learned to use that like any other tool.

It freaks dad out something awful one night when they're walking in a bar and Dean draws the kind of attention that has someone talking about him, to him, with dad in earshot. It's nothing Dean hasn't heard before. It's nothing he hasn't capitalized on, kicked ass for, struggled against and wielded. It's all about his mouth and his ass and dad flips his shit.

Dean doesn't even notice at first, just some asshole talking about what he would love to do to Dean, but then dad's in the guy's face about to start a fracas over nothing. Dean has a moment of blank surprise and then he calmly steps in between dad and the guy and he's keeping between them when dad tries to reach past, tries shoving him to the side.

Dean isn't even fazed when the guy draws the obvious wrong conclusion and tells dad he should keep his pretty little bitch under better control. Dean can feel the pulse of chock that ripples through dad and he shoves his shoulder back into dad's chest hard enough that dad gets the message. “Step back” and luckily dad is too surprised to do anything but comply.

Dean can't really worry about dad when he's got this guy in front of him, talking too much shit for it to be good for his health while dad spits something like “that's my son, you bastard” and Dean can't help rolling his eyes. At that moment, Dean's the one in control and he's the one who knows how to handle this kind of bullshit.   
It's nothing new.

He smiles at the guy in front of him, wide and bright and cold. For just a second, Dean lets the pretense slip, drops his clueless kid persona and shows the guy the killer that hides behind that smile. Something happens to the guy's face, some old instinct takes over and Dean knows he might look slight but that doesn't mean anything because right now, right here? He just kicked that guy right in the fight-or-flight reflex, by-passing all rational thought and hitting the monkey-brain. The guy actually flinches.

They're not really drawing any notice yet, but it's mostly a matter of seconds before this whole thing gets out of hand, turns into a thing. Dean is polite when he tells the guy that there seems to have been a misunderstanding and that he better go on now and have a good night… somewhere else.

John Winchester is a dark cloud behind Dean, but the thing that makes the guy stammer out an apology about how drunk he is is the fact that Dean's smiling at him like he's about to slit his throat.   
Dean can do that.  
He's done it before.   
He lets that show.

Later, when he and dad are sitting across from each other with burgers in front of them, dad keeps giving him these assessing looks, like he's trying to figure it out, like he's putting things together and doesn't really like what he's coming up with. It takes a few minutes but then dad asks.   
-Does that happen often?   
Dean just looks at him and arches an incredulous eyebrow.   
-The world’s full of assholes. Sir.   
-Dean…  
-How old were you when you enlisted? Dean cuts in, and it’s not really a question.

Dad looks out over the bar, gaze gone distant. He knows what Dean’s saying. He was about Dean’s age. That’s all the conversation they’re going to have on the topic, and Dean’s glad. If dad had kept pushing Dean would have told him he should have worried when Dean was twelve. Or when Sammy was eleven. Or maybe that night when Dean was eight and pointed a gun center mass on a guy standing in their motel room with his hand on his dick. It’s a little late in the game to get twisted up over this now.

If dad had ever really thought about it, honestly without the bullshit, he would know. He would figure out that Dean’s had hands on him that he might have chosen not to have there if there was any real choice to make. That Dean has done everything and anything it takes. That Dean is the guy who does whatever it takes to take care of Sammy. And of himself, as an afterthought. Dean isn’t the hero here, he’s just the guy who does what he has to. It’s not like he doesn’t know that about himself, it’s not like dad shouldn’t be able to put that together, all things considered. It’s what Dean’s been raised into after all.

**

Watch out for Sammy.

Dean does that. He watches out for his little brother. He’s doing a pretty good job of keeping Sam clothed and fed and entertained in the endless hours eating up black top or hanging around some near derelict house where there are mouse droppings in the cabinets and the raw unpleasant smell of sewage coming from the shower drain.

It might help explain why he _watches_ Sam. The long thin runnels of his ribs. The way his muscles start developing, that runner’s physique that makes too perfect sense. The way Sam moves now, the way his mouth tilts up when he’s trying to hide a smile.

**

Sam never comes out and says anything. He never asks about that night. He never makes a reference to it, not once, not even when Dean came back with smoke on his clothes.

But Sam _knows_.

 


	3. Socialization

Dean’s pretty much given up on relationships, as in girlfriends and sweethearts and someone to take to the prom. That just went out the window when it really hit him how they live in comparison to most people. There was a period when he was mostly thinking with his downstairs brain and he got his face slapped and his feelings hurt. Actually, yeah, hurt feelings. Getting slapped around wasn’t all that much of a problem.

Sammy, though. Shit. Sammy takes it all so seriously. Dean hooks up whenever he can, which is considerably less than everyone around him seems to think, because there are not that many hours in a day and he’s got training, chores, doing research for dad and holding down a minimum wage job when he’s not running some scam. And taking care of Sammy. They’re on the road a lot and Dean’s the grease in that machine, making sure they’re fed and clothed. It’s not that dad doesn’t do things, or that Sam doesn’t pitch in, they do, but there’s a level of attention to detail that easily gets overlooked with those two.

That means that Sammy will still, at the age of fifteen, suddenly give Dean this look that says “I’m hungry” as clear as day and before Dean knows which end is up he’s standing in whatever kitchen they have making sandwiches, which will draw dad from whatever corner he’s hibernating in like bees to honey. Irony. It’s a concept Dean’s pretty familiar with. “Make your own damned sandwiches, I’m not your maid/mom”, Dean could say. He could. He just never does. Fucking point would there be? Exsanguination is a method of slaughter. Making some sandwiches is nothing.

Except it doesn’t look that way to Sam, who gets this expression in his eyes, this oddly endearing look, like Dean’s done something extraordinary every single fucking time he builds a stack of ham and cheese on a paper plate for the kid.

**

Sam is wearing his shirt.

That’s not unusual. Only a very few items are strictly his property, or Sam’s property. Sam’s been growing out of everything like you wouldn’t believe and they go through clothes pretty fast anyway, so Sam taking something of his when laundry day is rolling around isn’t anything noteworthy.

The tee Sam has on is the one Dean wore yesterday.

Dean wore it to the bar where he hustled pool, left it on the floor next to the bed and now Sam is wearing it.

Dean wants to think it’s an oversight on Sam’s part, that he somehow missed the fact that the shirt smells like Dean’s deodorant and sweat and, Jesus, sex, because Dean did have a few hours to himself last night and he damned well made good use of them. He knows that Sam is standing in the door about to head out for school in a shirt that smells like him and his brain just won’t go anywhere good with that.  
  
It’s a red flag to a bull.

Dean wants to walk over, put his face in the crook of Sam’s neck and get a hint of what they smell like together, Sam and him. Sam gives him this look, no smile, nothing, something knowing and far too old for his years. Dean says something about taking care and being safe and being back in time for dinner, same kinds of things he always says and he’s ignoring the flare of possessiveness in his belly and the way something rolls over, content and genuinely pleased. The sum total of that is so much an animal, feral thing that Dean shies away from it and turns his back on the look in Sam’s eyes, equal parts eager and perceptive and haunted.

**

The trick is to layer up. T-shirt, shirt, second heavier shirt, leather jacket.

It’s exactly the same with what you’re feeling. Nothing to it… just layer it down.

**

-We’re bad kids, Sam says.

Dean turns in his direction without even really deciding to. For a moment he looks at Sam who has his head buried in a book. Sam’s face is impassive. Dean has a long strip of wire in one hand, working on rewiring a bedside lamp Sam found on the curb by the neighbor’s garbage cans.

Sam slowly looks up from his book, and Dean kind of expected it to be psychology, philosophy, something like that, but it looks more like geography from where he’s sitting.

-Did you know we’re bad kids? Sam asks, still with that same clean expression.   
-What brought that on? Dean asks, because he can’t make the requisite bad-boy jokes right now.

There’s something wrong with this picture.

-Poorly socialized, Sam says, enunciating carefully.

His eyes are slowly changing color now, growing lighter.

-We should have been encouraged to maintain a positive mindset. We should have been directed to spend time with a group of our peers, Sam tells Dean sounding like he’s reading it straight off some pamphlet on how to raise your kids.

Dean just looks at Sam’s bland and mild expression for a long moment. Sam carefully, gently closes the book, getting up from the couch and ambling over to the kitchen table where Dean’s sitting with his tools and the dismembered lamp.

-Is this about the soccer thing? Dean asks. “’Cause, no offence, dude, but those guys were dicks.”   
-Race, social class, religion… those are societal factors that play an important role in socialization. Family’s the first agent, though.   
-Uh-hu. Okay.   
-Family teaches the child how to relate to others, how to use objects … how the world works.

Sam sits down opposite Dean and picks up the wire stripper. Dean’s eyes are still locked on his little brother. Feels like Sam is playing some elaborate game of chess right now.

-Where’s dad? Sam asks.   
-Still in Virginia, last I heard.   
-What’s he doing?   
-Fucked if I know.   
-When’s he due back?   
-When the job’s done.

Sam puts the wire stripper down. He picks up the base of the lamp and examines it closely, peering inside, looking at how it all comes together, like some logic puzzle.

-What going on, Sammy?   
-Parent-teacher conference thing on Wednesday.   
-I’ll go.

There’s a long pause. Sam looks at him from under his bangs, small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It’s a little bitter, a little sardonic.

-Yeah, Sam says and then he reaches out, making sure Dean sees him coming. He runs the back of two fingers over Dean’s still bruised to hell eyebrow and down the side of Dean’s cheek. “They’re going to love that.”   
-Poorly socialized kids tend to get into fights, Dean tells him and he thinks he’s got it now, he thinks he knows what this is.   
-That’s what they keep saying.

Dean smiles when Sam smiles, automatic response. Sam is something else. He looks at the lamp again and then at the wire in Dean’s hands.

-Show me how to do that, he says with a nod to the table.   
-How to use objects and relate to the world?  
-Preferably without getting my face beaten.   
-I can do that, Dean tells him and Sammy’s smile this time is genuine, bright and all too smart.

**

Dean’s making cinnamon toast.

The toaster smells weird, like heated coils of wire and old sooty crumbs. Butter, cinnamon and dark sugar smells really golden, though. His shirt only has two buttons left, but at least it’s clean.

Saturday. Dad’s in South Dakota. Sam’s just woken up, judging from the seriously cranky grumble coming from directly behind Dean. He knows Sam’s there. He always knows where Sam is.

He still jumps when Sam’s forehead lands on his shoulder blade and an elbow gets pressed in to the small of his back.

-Deeean, Sam says, voicing small-boy-Sammy objection. “Why are we awake, Dean? I don’t wanna be awake. Not slept enough yet.”

Dean smiles helplessly at the bread he’s buttering. He can feel Sam’s breath puffing hot down his back and Sam leaning more of his weight against him, settling, almost falling asleep on his feet. Not like he can blame the kid. They were up two days straight for a hunt and they’re still trying to catch up.

There’s shit they have to do today. Places they have to be.

Sam shifts against him, grows a little heavier, rubs his cheek against Dean’s shoulder and then leaves his head there, snuffles.

-Get some food in you, you’ll be fine, Dean tells him.   
-Don’t wanna be fine. Wanna be in bed, Sam grouses and his voice falls from sweet boy right into the heavy darkness of a pitfall.

Grown man soon, Dean’s little brother. Taller than him now, but not like this, not when his brain isn’t firing on all cylinders and he’s trying to sleep against Dean. It would be so easy. Unplugging the toaster and putting everything back and then leading Sam into the bedroom, tumbling him down. Whatever was sweet about them once is just not anymore. They’re young wolves now, the two of them, teeth and all. They’re bloodied, both of them. They’re not children... If they ever really were.

Dean pushes Sam back with an elbow.

-Go sit you whiny little bitch. Toasts done, coffees up and we’ve got stuff to do today.

Sam retaliates by biting him on the shoulder before stumbling over to the table and plopping down, eyeing the food with a hungry gleam and running a hand through his hair. Dean feels the sting of teeth all through breakfast and makes Sam do the dishes.   
  
**

Dean’s shaking.

He’s shaking so fucking hard he can’t keep a good grip on his sawed off. Cold hours in the rain. Dad’s out ahead of him, rifle slung over his shoulder. Hunt’s all over, the thing’s dead, Dean’s done. He needs a shower. He needs to get his core temperature back up. Longs for warm, dry socks.

He follows dad down the hill, the winding trail leaving him stumbling in the gloom. Dad is just as tired as he is, just as dirty, just as cold. He’s putting one foot in front of the other, though, heavy treads in old army boots now that they don’t really need stealth anymore.

In the grey-green wet pelted woods Dean feels like all he can do is follow, gaze flickering through scrub brush and tangled green only to come back to the expanse of dad’s shoulders, over and over and over. His hands numb, his feet cold and everything else wet, sore and uncomfortable. He’s been following dad forever and the state he’s in now, exhaustion heavy, adrenaline washed out, it feels like this moment has gone on for an eternity, losing time in the woods.

It didn’t feel like this going in, but then it never does. Going in Dean had been sharp-eyed and vigilant, hot blood in his veins, all the focus and intent needed for the hunt, still following dad, always following dad, because that’s what he does, that’s the way he’s been brought up in the world, because that’s what he has to do to keep his family safe. It’s loyalty, sure, but it’s necessity more than that. Dean does what he has to, in this as in all other things.

Now he just wants a shower. Hot meal. Bed. Sammy by his side.

Don’t want to think too much on the downside slope of a hunt like this. Normally there’s less of a trek and more of a town, but not always. These aren’t deep woods, just scraggly hilly green. In the deep woods things are different. Survival course taught him, taught him and Sam. It’s not always like this, but sometimes it is. And he can do this too. He can do all of it, any of it.

Sammy’s back at the motel. Swollen ankle and bruised face. Not from the hunt this time. Not from the hunt. Fuckers had gone three on one trying to take him down and Sam had still held his own. Dean got there just as Sam fell and the biggest one of them had kicked at him where he lay, Sam twisting fast and agile to get away from the rib-cracking force coming at him. Did too, just as Dean fell on them all like the wrath of God. Had the one trying to kick Sam by the back of his shirt, yanking him back and then forward, slamming his knee into the guy’s face. Bad noise, broken nose and Dean knew he was talking by then, knew he was promising blood and retribution.

Sam didn’t stay down - atta-boy, Sammy - got back up and waded back in, but it was fast and brutal after Dean got there and there were broken bones, broken noses, broken grunts of pain and then Sam dragging at Dean to get him to go.

It’s a good thing that Sammy did that.   
Dean wanted to do more.   
Dean’s almost always armed these days. There could have been a lot more blood on the ground.

Dad hadn’t been pleased. They knew this was coming up, they were in town for this, and watching his two sons coming through the door banged up, bruised and obviously from a brawl… not good. Sammy with an arm slung over Dean’s shoulder, because his ankle was definitely swollen beyond the point where he could support himself. Dad had thrown a shit-fit the likes of which Dean hasn’t seen in a while.

Somehow it devolved into a screaming match between dad and Sam and Dean’s still not clear on how the fuck that happened. Words like “loyalty” and “consequence” and “responsibility” got thrown Sam’s way and Sam came back fast with all kinds of things about how they were living and “what about the fact that I got fucking jumped, or don’t you even care?”

Dean had to put an end to it by throwing Sam in the bathroom, forcing him to go where Dean went because he still couldn’t stand on that foot, but he is sure as hell stubborn enough to try. Shutting the door on Sam’s betrayed look made something in Dean twist that hurt worse than his knuckles.

Dean had tried talking dad down, but ... That hadn’t gone all that well. Second verse same as the first. “Responsibility” and “you’re supposed to watch out for him” and “get your head out of your ass”. That kind of thing.

-I can still hunt, Dean told him. “We’ll just go one man short.”   
-Damn straight we will. You best be fucking ready at o-five hundred.

Bang of a door, rumble of the engine and Dean exhaled. One long slow breath, then another. Dad doesn’t curse unless he’s really angry.

Then Dean went back in the bathroom.

Sam sitting there, picking at a flap of skin peeled back off one knuckle with a curl of disgust on his lips, head bent, hair in his eyes. Dean didn’t really want to think about it, because three guys had jumped his little brother and he had blood on him. Dean just knelt down, set to work unlacing Sam’s sneaker to get a better look at that ankle. Sam’s breath huffing out, chill cold hurt and not a little anger under that.

-He didn’t even asked what happened, Sam said, quiet and raw.

Dean didn’t bother answering. Dad’s got his little unit of three and plans accordingly, but Dean knows Sam wasn’t really needed for this one, and maybe he wasn’t needed either. This was for time in the field and now Sam was out of commission and Dean was going to be made to go as a kind of reprimand.

-Wasn’t my fucking fault, Sam spit while Dean worked the sneaker off carefully, seeing the distended skin and the beginning of a bruise coming in under that.

The sock peeled down, leaving an imprint that looked like scar tissue already. More where that came from, probably, in the future. He was pressing gently, making sure the bone was whole. Sam tensed and relaxed, but there was no real bone-break pain there. One of Sam’s hands balled up into a fist on his knee and the other suddenly found Dean’s shoulder as Sam leaned forward and put his forehead to Dean’s temple, pressed in close.

- _Dean_.

The world is a dangerous place because Dean can turn his back to his little brother for five minutes to pay for gas only for three drunk idiots to jump him, calling him a faggot. There was no reason for any of it, other than the logic of drunken yahoos looking for someone to fuck up. Sam, all lanky limbs and ratty clothes, waiting, leaning up against the wall in the half-shadows, had looked like easy pickings.

Kneeling by little brother’s feet with the wash of hot breath carrying his name in Sam’s low asking-voice, Dean was not sure what he had to give that Sam could want right then. Sam’s hand on his shoulder in a tight grip, Sam’s eyes hidden and blood dripping onto Dean from the cut in Sam’s mouth. There was something little brother wanted.

They’ll never tell dad what that brawl was about. Not a part of dad’s world, but of their’s and on a night like that, Dean thinks dad doesn’t want to know. Sam is right on the cusp, his light so fucking bright now it’s bringing in all the crazies. The lean strength all hidden and his face still so young. Sam is beautiful and seemingly innocent and everyone wants a piece of that. If they can’t have it any other way, then they want to sully and break it.

It doesn’t help that Dean knows all about that.

The woods give way to fields and the fields to paths and the paths to gravel and then there’s road. Dad’s truck is a welcome sight. Means that soon Dean will be under the spray of hot water and then he’ll be tangled up with Sam on his bed, because they might have separate rooms and one bed each, but Dean almost killed some random guy for Sam last night and he can’t sleep alone after that.

He just can’t.

**

Dean knows he’s damaged. Scarred, yes. A little fucked-up, sure. He doesn’t think about that stuff much, because really, what’s the point? You do what you have to and you keep your head down and you get on with it. There are choices, every day. Some are easy, some don’t look like choices at all, but that’s the nature of the beast.

Once when they were just little kids, they were holed up in some random motel. Dad wasn’t there. Dean remembers blinking up at his father’s incredulous, worried and hung-over face limned in harsh light the morning after as he opened the door to the closet where Sam lay swathed in a nest of pillows and linens and blankets, his head in Dean’s lap where he sat with his back to the wall. Dean had a gun pointed squarely at dad’s chest for about ten seconds.

He remembers the exact tone of dad’s voice when he said “Jesus Christ, boy” and then slower and more cautious “stand down, Dean”. And he remembers easing his finger off the trigger, maybe a little slower than he should have. Sam had a fever of 104 and some time during that night Dean had finally come to the realization that he no longer needed dad to tell him to take care of Sammy. It was what Dean did, it was all he wanted to do. It had nothing to do with the fact that dad wasn’t there, that Sammy was sick and scared, that Dean was the only one who was there, second best and never as good at anything as his father. It was the simple fact that it never even occurred to Dean to try to get help.

**

Dad has an arms dealer. Old contact of his from when he was in the army. This guy, Tommy Irish, came back with some serious anti-establishment issues. Dad doesn’t really like having to go through the complications of dealing with Tommy, because the guy took a couple of steps away from the law that dad never did. Dad dropped off the grid after mom’s death, but Tommy got himself a Harley and a brand new band of brothers.

Dean likes the guy.

There’s something about him. He’s got a commanding presence, he’s cool, calm and collected and he has this way of cutting dad down to size that Dean really shouldn’t enjoy as much as he does. Tommy calls dad John-boy, or John-O, and it’s obvious that dad was under the guy’s command, or just green as all hell when they first met, because Tommy gets away with things that Dean would never have thought anyone could. Dad has to step down with this guy.

Tommy’s got an armory in an old junker that looks like it’s been in a head on collision with a semi. Tommy’s wears faded jeans, flannel shirts, a leather jacket and a knife in a shoulder holster. He wears cold iron around his wrist and a silver crucifix around his neck, his dark hair is long and streaked grey and he obviously doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about any of that.

Dean stays two steps behind dad through the inevitable greetings. They’ve done this dance before and it’s all about the specialty items. Dad’s after some kind of flamethrower. Dean steps up when Tommy turns to him and says “Little Man”, like he has since the first time Dean met him.

-Not so little anymore, Dean says and he knows there’s a smirk on his lips when Tommy pulls him in and gives him one of those close, one-armed hugs, leather making a soft thudding noise as their chests collide. Tommy just laughs at him, but there’s acknowledgement in his eyes when he draws back.   
  
Once he pops the trunk of the junker Dean knows he gets a little glassy-eyed. Tommy has literally everything. Including a knife that would make Sam drool. Tommy is watching Dean closely and there’s something in his eyes that Dean has seen before. Assessment. An opening. A welcome. Dean gives him his attention while dad leans in, inspecting the display of various weapons.

-See something you like, Little Man? Tommy asks and Dean can’t help it that time. He lets his gaze glide slowly down the strong lean lines of dad’s old army buddy and back up, lingering curiously over the glimpse of a tattoo at the base of his throat. When he gets all the way back up to Tommy’s eyes, he smiles.

Then he steps in beside dad and runs his fingers over the handle of the wickedly curved blade pressed into a piece of foam rubber.

-This is beautiful, Dean says, voice neutral.   
-That it is, Tommy agrees.   
-We’re not here for luxuries. Or toys, dad says dismissively.   
-Ah, John-O. Always so serious. Shouldn’t deny the boy. It’s not all work, you know.

Dad just huffs. Dean knows there’s negotiations and all the rest to be got through so instead of listening to that first instinct of backing up and letting dad handle the whole thing, he looks over at Tommy again.

-May I? Dean asks as politely as he knows how.   
-Please, be my guest, Tommy says and Dean pries the knife out of its hold and hefts it to get a feel for it.   
-Love at first sight? Tommy asks and he’s all too amused.   
-Not for me. But I know someone who’d like it.   
-Little brother, right? Tommy asks, but it’s not really a question.

And then dad barks out something about not dicking around and Dean steps back, letting them get on with it.

One of the reasons dad doesn’t like doing business with Tommy is that most of it is done in a bar parking lot and then there is the inevitable beer to seal the deal and John would love to be able to get out of that, Dean can tell. So can Tommy and that’s probably a part of the reason why he insists. They are polite to each other, but something about Tommy always riles John up, subtle though it may be.

Tommy orders beers and shots and chicken wings and smiles at John like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. John grumbles about needing to get back on the road. It doesn’t work that way and they all know it, so when Tommy says “road will still be there, John-Boy” there’s not a lot dad can do. They drink to their dead and Dean sits that one out, because it’s not his place. He doesn’t think dad’s ever really told Tommy what it is they do, but then Tommy’s never really told them what it is he does either – apart from trading in illegal arms.

Dean gets up when they’re about half-way through their evening to go take a piss. Too much going on between the two older men at the moment and something like jungle heat shimmering around them, like they can find that place inside themselves at any time. That’s probably part of what makes John so uncomfortable with all this.

The bar bathroom is much cleaner than Dean would have expected. It’s got some kind of tie to the club Tommy belongs to, that much he does know. He’s washing his hands at the sink, thinking about that knife again, when the door opens and Tommy pushes through. The sinks are off to one side so you don’t have to stand with your back to the door and Dean appreciates that in the way only a true paranoiac can. He nods, doesn’t smile, doesn’t let his first instinct rule him.

When Dean goes to walk off Tommy is suddenly in his space, palm flat to Dean’s chest, not pushing, but keeping him there. He steps in close, right into Dean and it’s unnerving how fast and smooth that was, Dean looking down at the heavy boot placed solidly between his own feet, they’re standing that close.

-Whoa, Dean says, trying to get his hand up, to push the guy off, heart suddenly slamming in his chest.   
-Calm down, Tommy says, but he doesn’t step back.

Instead he follows when Dean tries to make some space between them, which leaves Dean with his back to the wall right by the door. Too much like a lot of other situations where Dean’s found himself backed into corners he has to fight his way out of bloody.

-Easy, Little Man, Tommy says, brow furrowing.

It would be a hell of a lot easier to take it easy if the guy would just fucking get out of his space and Dean’s getting to the point where his muscles bunch in preparation for a fight and fuck the connection, fuck the weapons, fuck dad’s army loyalty. Dean does the only thing he can think of to try and stave this off before something really bad happens here. He looks up, squarely meeting Tommy’s eyes, trying to put a metric ton of back-the-fuck-off in his gaze and … what he sees there isn’t what he’s expecting.

-I’m sorry about the war stories, Tommy says and, again, not what Dean is expecting.   
-‘S okay, Dean tells him, because it is, and because he has to say something, the way he’s being studied.   
-There’s this old cliché about soldiers being like brothers. Maybe it has some truth to it. Not all brothers like each other, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.

Dean just looks at the guy, because, Jesus, this is too weird. Too close, too weird. Tommy looks down at the hand he has resting on Dean’s chest and lets up a little, tapping Dean’s amulet with one finger, just a brief touch. Then he backs off enough that the rough jangle of Dean’s nerves gets a little more manageable.

-Johnny’s has always had his own way of doing things, and I’m not about to argue the man. Wouldn’t do any good if I did, his head’s too hard for much of anything to get through. But I tell you what… I’ve got a kid. I would never do to him what your dad’s doing to you.

Dean bristles at that. Fuck does he think is going on here? What is it he thinks dad’s doing to him?

-I like you, Little Man. I always liked you. You have a lot of backbone. I’ve always respected honesty, strength and the conviction to follow through. If you ever feel you need another path, something else… if you ever get sick of Corporal Winchester and his fall-in-line bullshit, there’s a place for you here.   
-Sam, Dean says, like that’s his only answer.

And it is. It is his only answer, his bottom line, his first thought. Tommy smiles.

-Sam’s is going to find his own way. He’s inherited his stubborn from the man in there, Tommy says with a swift quirk of his chin towards the door. “But he’s welcome too.”

Dean is shaking his head, keeps shaking it the whole time Tommy talks. They stay like that for a few seconds when he goes quiet. Then Tommy huffs a kind of laugh.

-Okay, heart-to-heart in a bar bathroom … bad idea.   
-You’re telling me, Dean says and now he thinks he can get out of here, he’s reaching for the door and Tommy grabs him again, solid grip around his forearm.   
-I mean it, though. I came back promising myself that no one was ever going to order me around like that again. That I was never going to do that to anyone else. Johnny did too, but… something happened there. I don’t know what, and frankly when I look at the way you are, I don’t even want to know. If it ever gets too much, you know where to find me.

Dean nods, just once, because he can’t get out of here if he doesn’t. The whole thing leaves him unsettled and a little troubled for the rest of the night. They stay for too long and they drink too much, ending up having to sleep it off at a motel down the road from the bar before they can head back to where Sammy’s waiting. Dean isn’t even really surprised when he finds the beautifully curved wicked blade folded into his leather jacket when he grabs it to go get coffee while dad showers in the morning. No note, nothing.

That knife gets a spectacular smile out of Sammy when Dean hands it to him.

Dad tells him some time later that Tommy’s been shot dead.

Dean liked Tommy in ways that he can’t really define. Tommy’s what life could have been, maybe, if things had been a different kind of fucked-up. Pictures himself with a bike instead of the Chevy, Sammy riding bitch instead of shotgun. Truth is that probably wouldn’t have been so bad.

 


	4. Secondary Defintion

Sam irritates the living hell out of Dean some days, makes him want to put a fist through a wall. He makes Dean laugh and fills him with a kind of honest wonder too. Makes Dean so damned proud, fucking top of the class little wise-ass. Lanky Sammy-boy with his big grin and his smart mouth and his million miles a minute brain.

Sam has his dark spots. He can rip everything apart with a few scathing words. It’s not teenage angst. It’s not drama, or willfulness, or him being a brat or anything as simple as that. Sammy gets that way when he feels trapped, when he gets scared. It’s like watching a wild animal in a snare. Sammy gets that way a lot lately.

Unfathomable. It’s a good word for Sam. The quantities of him, the complexities. The fact that he’s such a little bitch sometimes and Dean still can’t seem to step away from anything that has to do with him, even when Sam’s hitting out with the intention to hurt. Dean’s at the blunt receiving end of that a lot of the time. Sam and dad aren’t getting any better at not pushing each other, and Dean can’t see why they can’t just keep the peace. Peacekeeping, that’s his job. Or, well. One of them.

At the ripe old age of twenty-one he’s come to the conclusion that things aren’t going to end well if this is how they keep going. Sam’s got more extra curriculars than there’s any reason for and Dean might have dropped out early, but that hardly equates him being stupid. Sammy’s working towards something and it’s not anything to do with the family business.

**

There are sliding moments between them, openings. Dean’s thinking nothing of it, thinking something, thinking too much. Sam under him when they spar, predictably. Dean losing the hold and having to reposition himself, his hand skimming from Sam's bicep to his wrist, gliding over sweat-slippery skin with corded bunching muscle underneath, Sam's jaw set in angry defiance and his ribcage working like a bellows, hard angry spark in his eyes. Dean can chose in those moments. It's not what it could be with someone else under him, held down and trying to find leverage. Intellectually he knows that, even if his body can be astonishingly stupid about heat and friction and just the reined in struggle of all that growing power.

What he likes about it is exactly the wrong thing, and that's something you don't want to know in relation to yourself. You need to know, though. Jesus, you really need to know. It's exactly the same as knowing you're capable of violence and lying and scamming and stepping in front of a bullet for your little brother. It's the same as knowing what the premeditated taking of a human life feels like. So Dean knows you don't always give in to an impulse and if you do you better be really fucking sure of what you're doing. It's not like you can take anything back, undo it. You have to be willing to pay the price.

**

Dean catches little brother _in flagrante_. There’s no way of processing anything other than the purblind rage that swallows him up, everything he’s ever done to keep Sam safe futile, pointless. Sam on his knees for some guy and in the longest, slowest moment of Dean’s life he sees every creep, every single wrong gaze ever directed at his little brother, superimposed over the figure above him.

It takes everything Dean has to not pull his gun and empty a clip in that vague shape. He isn’t angry. What Dean’s feeling isn’t anything as harmless as anger.

Then the scene dissolves itself into particulars. Sam’s fingers loose and easy on the jeans clad hips of guy he’s with. The tenderness of the hand cupping Sam’s cheek and the slender wrist it’s attached to. The look of wonder and arousal on the kid’s face, and it is a kid, one of Sam’s many, many followers from the latest school. Some jock geek wonder with a pretty face and a slim runner’s body, his head tilted back and his eyes closed.

Sam’s heard the door opening and he’s disengaging his mouth, turning towards Dean, a hectic blush heating his face. Sam locks eyes with him and his expression morphs from turned on to startled and mortified.

Sam, down on his knees, sucking cock.

Sam, down on his knees willingly.

Sam saying his name.

A dirty swift pulse of merciless arousal shoots through Dean. He has no idea what kind of expression could possibly be on his face right now, but he knows it’s enough to frighten Sam, really scare him. The kid he’s with makes a disappointed noise, a little whine and he’s just about to open his eyes when Dean understands that if he stays here, hand on the door handle, eyes locked with Sam’s, no one is getting out of this room unscathed. He mouths “sorry” at his little brother and turns and walks away.

Dean doesn’t go home that night. He doesn’t dare to.

The next couple of days are more tense avoidance than anything else, Sam waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean knows he can’t hurt Sam’s … whatever that guy is. He thinks about it, though. He thinks about it when he’s cleaning weapons. He thinks about it when Sam slinks into the kitchen almost soundlessly, trying to stay out of sight.

There’s a wire there that Dean’s really scared of tripping, something thin and razor sharp. He is so fucking close to losing it a couple of times until Sam actually startles when they cross paths as he’s on his way out the door. Sam hasn’t been able to make eye contact for more than a couple of seconds and at first Dean thought it was shame, but now he sees something else in Sam’s wide troubled eyes as his gaze flicks up almost involuntarily.

Sam is freaked.

So Dean sits his little brother down. And they talk it out.

Dean takes care of Sammy. He watches out for his little brother. That’s his job, that’s what he does. If that means he has to have this conversation then he will. The only thing Dean knows at that point, with a kind of blinding certainty, is that the conversation really needs not to go off the rails. He knows Sam's mind. He knows that he shouldn't have left the way he did because Sam has no doubt been reading into that and he knows that Sam has seen stuff, knows stuff about Dean that means he's going to be in for some well constructed logic, so he's going to need to be real careful.

Sam's bruised voice when he says he knows it's ”not about that, because I've seen you” hurts. Dean doesn't want to think too much about what Sam might or might not have seen. It isn't about him, it can't be. Sam's scared of something that doesn't exist, some ghost of his own thinking, the illusion that normal rules apply to them. Dean doesn't give a shit, he doesn't care about that, the only thing he cares about is that Sam doesn't have to … shouldn't be forced, shouldn’t be pushed. Not with that. Sam shouldn't be on his knees at all, but if he goes then it should be because he wants to. Dean knows what he walked in on. Sam wasn't doing anything he didn't want.

The slew of images that flicker snap-shot fast behind Dean's eyes get ruthlessly shoved aside for the whole length of the conversation.

-You mad at me, Dean? Sam asks just like he did when he was little.   
-Of course not, kid. Just. Next time lock the fucking door. And you’re real lucky it was me and not the old man.   
-Right. Lucky, Sam says and there it is, that thing that burns so bright in Sam sometimes.

Dean doesn’t have a name for it, but it’s a bitter thing, all twisted hurt and angry longing.

**

Dean doesn’t argue with dad. He’s been taught at a real early age not to. It goes way far beyond “do as your told” and “because I said so” and Dean’s had it reinforced over the years by getting fucked up every time he’s disobeyed one way or the other.

So, he doesn’t argue. Not for himself.

There are times, though, when his first job, his primary duty, dictates that he very carefully constructs an argument that won’t appear as willful disobedience, but simply a different opinion. Different set of priorities, maybe. Dad doesn’t like it. He never likes having to recalibrate whatever his plans are to accommodate something other than his own agenda. Which is a very carefully constructed way of saying that dad’s a stubborn ass sometimes, and blind to the needs of his sons, especially the youngest.

Sam needs some things that Dean never even thought twice about for himself. Occasionally life on the road gets too hard for Sam. Dean can always tell. It’s little things at first, like Sam bitching about losing a shirt or a book or something. Then his OCD kicks in. It’s not like a medical condition, not that acute, but Dean knows the signs, either way. Sam starts keeping lists, doing research endlessly on things that aren’t related to whatever they have going on at the time. It has a kind of furtive, manic quality to it that’s different from when Sam’s just keeping himself entertained.

Sam will start looking longingly at houses where real families live, not those show-home settings, but the lived-in beaten up places with kids’ bikes tilted on the front lawn and a shaggy dog panting at them from the porch. Dean can usually get him past that.

He also knows that when Sam starts getting real quiet they’re in for stormy weather. Again, if it was just Sam sulking, being a little brat, it wouldn’t be a problem. It isn’t anything as simple as that, though. Dean can get him out of a mood. He can’t get at the version of Sam that gets increasingly more withdrawn and introvert and puts his head in a book and fucking stops talking. Dad doesn’t even seem to notice, which baffles Dean all over again. When Sam is doing good he’s in your face about twenty four-seven, if not with casual observations and quiet bitching, then with something useful.

It’s about then that Dean starts building a long list of arguments in his head for why they should put down roots for a while. It’s difficult and it’s not like it was when he was Sam’s age, because for Dean it’s been a foregone conclusion for so long that he’s just going to hunt, ideally with dad and Sammy, so he doesn’t need any of that stuff. Sam does, though. Sammy really, really does.

Every time they get to that point it’s like dad’s surprised all over again that Sam isn’t ready to give up school yet, that he doesn’t want to just stay on the road.

And every time, no matter what kind of deal Dean can wrangle out of the old man, no matter what he has to promise “of course we’ll keep up the training” and “I’ll get a job and take care of it” and “we’ll come help on weekends and holidays” Sam gets this look on his face. It’s not the Dean-is-my-hero look, it’s something else, like Dean’s his life raft, his last hope. It’s a terrifying look for how much it means and how deep it goes. Dean’s been in a hunt where he’s saved peoples lives by literally pulling them out of an old disused well and that didn’t get him that look. It is truly wet-your-pants scary to matter that much in any context.

After they settle, wherever they settle, it still takes a while for Sam to start getting back to himself, lose some of the burden and the anger that seems to weigh him down. Dean knows the life isn’t for everyone, but he’s always believed that if there were people perfectly suited for it, it’s them. Dad and Dean and Sam.

He’s beginning to see how he could be wrong about that.

**

The hero-look is good. It's infrequent, but it warms Dean right down to the bone. It's got a dark mirror, though, and that's the look Sam gives him that says ”how could you?” He gets that one a little more often than he thinks he deserves. And he gets it for bullshit reasons, like flirting with their waitress to get them free pie, no matter that she's middle-aged and sports an honest to goodness beehive hairdo.

Some days Sammy gives Dean purpose, a reason for getting out of bed and getting his head together. It can get messy in there, he willingly admits it. He's good at shutting it down before it gets out of hand, but it's still a fucking three car pile-up sometimes. Other days it's something he wishes with a kind of bleak desolation that he could walk away from.

He wishes there wasn't this indefinable sense of urgency to every exchange between them, verbal or otherwise. He wishes it was less than it is, less intense and less disorganized. Sam goads him on, sneering mouth and viciously cutting words, those goddamned eyes that follow Dean with what looks like banked down hunger, the inevitable barbs they throw at each other, the tangible tension when they orbit each other. There's nothing even remotely easy about any of it, and still it's the easiest thing in the world to get Sammy where he wants to go, make sure he has what he needs.

Dean's not unaware that all of that is a little fucked-up. There are days when he's honestly relieved to be out of the house, even if he has to spend eight hours washing dishes until his back aches and his fingers are pruned beyond recognition. No matter how much they move, no matter how fast he drives, no matter how easy the girl he's with turns out to be, it still comes down to this thing between him and Sam getting more and more difficult.

**

-My kid brother, he tells the girl he's walking next to when he sees Sammy sitting on the trunk of the Impala.

Sam has his legs drawn up, feet on the back fender. He's going to pay in blood if he's scuffed up the paint. Sam's head comes up and the look he levels on them is dark enough that Dean thinks he should check that it's really Sammy.

Sam's stillness is heavier than Dean's comfortable dealing with in front of someone who doesn't know them. He gives a bunch of excuses and a fleeting kiss to the girl he’s with and leaves her behind, striding over to where Sam is perched like a goddamned bad omen.

-If you left a mark on her I'm taking it out on your ass, is what Dean says by way of greeting.  
-I haven’t, but if you find one you’re welcome to try.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t know what a competent little shit his little brother is. He taught him so much. How to tie his shoes. How to blow his nose. How to talk to a girl. How to curl his then too small fingers around the grip of a gun. How to lie convincingly.

Sam sits in the passenger seat, picking at a fraying patch on his jeans, a little off center on his right knee. Dean knows the worn patches on those jeans because he wore them before little brother did. Sam's put them through hard use since, though, and now they're literally threadbare. It's all their lives, this constant grind, wearing everything down to a nub and Dean's familiar with it, knows how it goes. They're going to have to find a charity or an army-navy soon. Sam's growing right out of the clothes that used to be Dean's before they got to where Sam is eye-level with him.

There’s something off about the way Dean feels about that. The dreams are bad enough, but this need he has to swathe Sam in his clothes like some kind of armor, it's all twisted intentions. It's not really about protection, not entirely, or maybe just not to the right degree. It doesn't feel all wrong, it's just obviously not as simple as keeping Sammy warm and covered. Dean lets the rumble of the engine carry them, music spilling out of the speakers crackling occasionally and he can't think of a single thing to say that isn't perfunctory. There are patterns to fall into, same as Sam with his goddamned list.

-You're getting me into all kinds of shit at school dating that girl, Dean, Sam says and his voice is low and kind of pissy.   
Dean lets his gaze tick over and takes in Sam's restless fingers and his slouch.   
-The fuck are you talking about?   
-Her mom’s a history teacher. She's been railing me every single class for like a month. She’s going to fail me on general principle. She's … she doesn't like you.

Dean thinks about the girl he left back in the parking lot, thinks about her soft skin and the overly sweet smell of her perfume. With Sam perched on the trunk, eyes dark and focused, Dean pretty much forgot her name. Forgot the promises he might have made her, something about taking her out, something about going to the movies, all gone the second Sam turned up and demanded his attention. It's annoying. Knowing Sam has that kind of right of way is annoying. There's nothing Dean can do about that, just like there's nothing he can do about the fact that he's going to dump Michelle first opportunity he gets. He might still fuck her, but he's not going to be dating her.

Sam is the most infuriating mix of self-possessed and needy. Dean resigns himself to going through the motions and then going without. It's not like that's unfamiliar. Sam's face is clouded, brow furrowed, eyes troubled. Dean knows that without even looking over.   
That is not the part of this that grates.

**

-How can you drink this? Sam asks as Dean raises the mug of pitch black trucker coffee to his lips again and inhales half the contents in one go.   
-Inherited a taste for it, dad says and flicks the page of the local paper over, sawing into his eggs sunny-side-up with the edge of his fork.   
Dean just hums appreciatively.   
-It’s like paint thinner, Sam says and dumps about half the sugar packets into his mug, features arranged in a carefully put together mock-scowl.   
-I like coffee that gets up, kicks you in the gut and then sleeps with your sister, dad says absentmindedly.

There’s a pause, just long enough for them to run that line through their heads again and then Sam looks at Dean and they both crack up laughing. Dad’s smiling at them both, chuckling along, and there’s a lightness in the air, something so pure and sweet it’s like the first breath after a heavy rain has stopped.

**

Sam has nightmares. Dean has nightmares. Shit, Dad gets them too. Occupational hazard.

Sam’s nightmares always look severe. Dean wakes up from pained noises from Sam, cut-off whimpers and even worse than that, the half-pleading almost words that sound like “no” and “please” and Dean never wants to know what the hell that’s all about. Dean has a Pavlovian response to Sam saying his name in a particular tone of voice, that hurt, pleading pitch. He wakes Sam up. He says “you’re okay, you’re safe”. He asks what the nightmares are about, because sometimes it helps if Sammy talks about them. It’s what Dean does, look out for his little brother. No matter the cost.

**

On Sam’s birthday Dean puts them both in the car and drives them to a camp site. It’s a little early in the season for most people and the air is decidedly crisp, but that’s fine. They’re not going to feel it. They’ve got something called Woodford Reserve and hot dogs and snack food and Dean’s got a huge big cupcake with pink frosting on it that he plans on giving Sam once he’s gotten him good’n’drunk.

This is not the usual. It’s really not, but dad’s not here and Dean is. He’s sick of the walls of the one story they’re in and he can’t picture Sam in a bar for any of this. He plans for something else, just the two of them, stars and a fire and their good sleeping bags and booze and just… Time like that. Just them two. Sammy’s turning eighteen and Dean has known him for eighteen years, has held on to him for that long, kept him safe, and that’s good enough. That’s something.

A couple of weeks ago Dean has listened to Sam’s clear outline of a debate thing he’d prepared on deepening socio-economic divisions and it’s not like Dean doesn’t know how smart little brother is, but that just drove it home. He’d mocked, of course he had. “How are you ever going to get laid?” and watched Sam’s derisive smirk, because they both know Sam has never had any problems with that.

They’re one third into the whiskey by the time Sam flops down on his back and looks up at the darkening sky.   
-Why d’you drop out, Dean? Sam asks, words slow and careful.   
Dean just looks over at him. Sam takes it for a long moment, raises an eyebrow, waits him out.   
-You know why, Dean tells him, tries to make it final.   
Open scorn on Sam’s face at that.   
-‘Cause dad told you to?   
-Hey, fuck you, kid, Dean says, but there’s not a lot of spite in it. “The hell am I going to need a degree for?”

Not all there is too it, not even close. Different agenda for Dean.

-You must have wanted at some point, Sam says. “Be something more than a boy soldier, something else. Dad’s bullshit, dumping all that on you.... Come on, Dean.”   
-Don’t matter what I want, Dean says and shrugs, takes another mouthful and then reaches the bottle out to Sam.

Sam takes it, but he’s just holding on to it. Dean sits down on his own bedroll, pokes at the fire they have going, folds another piece of wood into the flames. Sam watching him the whole time. He slowly sits himself back up, bottle held level and his gaze deep and focused.

-Why doesn’t it matter what you want? Sam asks and he’s inching closer while he speaks.

Dean watches him coming, sees the slight sheen of drunk in his eyes, the beers and the whiskey and the high of the night, the fact that they’re as far from people and towns and dad and everything as they can get right now. Dean’s cell doesn’t even have reception out here.

-Sammy, Dean says and he’s shaking his head, but Sam just keeps coming, all the way into his space, shuffling in to sit next to him, shoulders pressed together, Sam’s head lowered, hair falling into his eyes and he’s being too intense.   
-No, really. Why doesn’t it matter?   
-It’s your birthday, Sammy, Dean tries.   
-Yeah, eighteen, Sam says and screws the cap back on the bottle, carefully sets it aside. “Career talks, and finals and fucking college, Dean, you know?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He can’t, because there’s a kind of anger welling up in him that doesn’t always listen to reason and he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, when Sam’s all fired up on righteousness and breaking the peace. Again.

-I’m gonna do it, Sam says and he’s staring at the fire, shoulder notched into Dean’s. “You’re gonna have to let me.”

The anger is too goddamned swift. Dean knocks Sam off him into an undignified flail that he rides all the way down, Sam with his hair in the dirt and his arms pinned by his sides, one by Dean’s knee and the other by his hand and Dean’s arm locked across the base of his throat, throttling the little bitch. Sam fights back, but he’s a little too loose and drunk for it to really do anything.

The air around them gets very still when Sam looks up at him, gazes locking and there’s fear there. Real fear, not just the punch of adrenaline and sudden movement. Dean can wish that he didn’t love his little brother like this, with this heavy undercurrent of sharp violence, but that doesn’t necessarily do any good. There’s no mission statement for that kind of thing, there’s no preset. Dean is heated, he’s scared and he’s fucking pissed. A little drunk too, a little sick of all the needling remarks, sick of the in-house fighting between dad and little brother and that’s not helping right now.

He can’t say any of the things he’s thinking and he can’t do anything other than stare at Sam, try to see into him. He knows this is already done. Sam is old enough to make up his own mind, Sam is smart enough to get what he wants. Sam is the one who plays a long game every time they set up the chess board. One move at a time, but always the right one. This move, though, this move he clearly didn’t think all the way through and he’s scared of Dean. Right now, right here, in the flickering glow of the fire, Sam is terrified.

He rallies though. Never scared for long, making the only move left to him.

-You done? Sam asks, lips tight.   
  
Dean should be. He presses a little harder on the arm laid across Sam’s chest, feels the whipcord muscle there tense in response. He’s all over Sam, leaning heavily on him, laying over him and Dean wants to keep him. He wants to hold on and keep Sammy, because eighteen years of that and what the fuck else is he going to do with his life? What else is he good for? He defers to dad because he has to, because he needs to believe in something. Without Sam there’s nothing but that loyalty and the hunt.

No more laughter in the Laundromat at three in the morning. No more scribbling random notes to stick in Sam’s schoolbooks to startle a laugh out of him in class. No more ham sandwiches, paper plates loaded and no more of Sam’s grin, the wild free one.

Just the job. And dad.   
Saving people.   
Hunting things.   
Killing.

If it goes that way Dean will be what Sam thinks he is already. Automaton, obedient and ultimately expendable, like every other instrument in dad’s arsenal. Worth only the work he can get out of it. Dad might be the thing Dean believes in, but Sam is his goddamned _reason_.

Not just for doing the job.   
Sam’s his reason for everything.

Dean takes a breath. Then he slowly lets Sammy go with one last punishing press to his chest. Sits back up. Rubs a hand over his face.

Sam sits up too, tugs at his shirt and shakes his head hard enough that his hair feathers out, spraying dirt and dust all around. They just sit there for a long moment until the fire gives a sharp crackle and Sam shakes himself, like he’s shaking off the whole thing.

-Well. So far this birthday’s not exactly what I hoped, Sam says.   
-Bitch, Dean tells him and he wants this to be okay now, ‘cause he’s sick and tired of things getting to this point where he just wants to pin Sam down, or shake him, make him see, make him stay. Make him want to stay.  
-My point, Sam says and leans in, bumping his shoulder into Dean’s. “Jerk.”

Dean thinks it’s good enough, but he still can’t lose the unsettling feeling that just moments ago Sam was scared of him. And with good reason too.

It’s just the two of them out here in the night. Dean pushes it all away, layers it down deep and presents Sam with the cupcake, watches Sam light up like he really is that kid still, grin big and white and blinding. When they fall asleep Sam is laid out closest to the fire and Dean is snugged up behind him, heat and comfort and soft drunkenness and Dean’s back a shield against the whole rest of the world and all its darkness.

Last thought Dean remembers before dropping off is that he wants Sam to have it - everything he wants. Everything he dreams of. The whole world.

**

Dean doesn’t know how it happens. He doesn’t understand. Sam’s going, he was always going, it was always going to be that way. Even if Dean knows that, even if he’s always known, it still hits him like a sucker punch right in the gut.

They are in the deadly quiet after the fight that made dad leave so he wouldn’t do something worse than disown his favorite son. Dean thinks it’s symbolic that it could be so much worse. Sam’s face is still unbruised. That is only because Dean stepped in between them, hand to dad’s chest, back to Sam pressing up so close to him that he could feel little brother’s ribcage heaving in anger.

Sam’s going. Of course he is.

Dean’s already pushed all his cash into Sam’s shirt pocket, giving with both hands as always, trying too fucking hard to not feel like his chest has been hollowed out. Dean’s gutted, all his viscera on the floor, mind numb from that illusory blood loss and all this is so fucking predictable when he stops to think about it.

Sam looks at him, sneaks glances from under his fringe while he packs up with quick efficient movements. Dean lets him.

-You need a ride? Dean asks, thinking about the long haul all the way to where Sam needs to be, or just down to the bus station. Sam’s probably got his ticket already.

Sam’s hands still, buried in the bowls of his duffel.

-I think that would be worse, he says and he sounds like he’s run out of oxygen.

Dean nods.

Packing never takes long, they’ve got too much practice at it. Dean stands back the whole time, still so goddamned cold inside, like that one little icy spot has taken over his whole entire chest cavity this time.

Sam has one duffel and his backpack and a knife down his boot. He’s got all of Dean’s ready cash and look in his eyes that is completely unfamiliar. Dean leans against the wall and waits for him to be gone. Sam is already at the door when Dean thinks he should maybe say something about how proud he is, how much he hates that Sam is doing this, that Sam needs to be fucking safe and call him when the twin thumps of Sam’s bags hitting the floor makes him start.

Sam’s mouth on his is clumsy, awkward and so goddamned hungry Dean is caught flat for a second, his hands coming up to push away, defend himself, to haul little brother in closer and make him want to stay.

This isn’t an ultimatum, an alternative, a choice. This is regret. It hurts all the more for that. Sam is kissing him with everything packed in to it, layers peeled back and all the things Sam knows Dean’s done brought to the fore. Sam is kissing him fevered and clean and desperate and starved. It hurts more than it’s good and Dean can’t bring himself to want to gentle it. There’s a sharp inhale from Sam when Dean opens and gives as good as he’s getting, vindictive and overwrought.

And then Sam is gone with blood on his lip from where Dean bit him and everything that Dean has given tucked into his pockets.

**

Dysfunctional also means that something is not right, doesn’t work.   
Out of order. Defective. Broken.   
The secondary definition of that word fits too.


End file.
